


My Kingdom for Your Graces

by stepquietly



Category: Clean Bandit (Band), Years & Years (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4789391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepquietly/pseuds/stepquietly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Duke’s eyes seem to glitter then, and he says, bland voice belaying the smile in his eyes, “Surely a gentleman proclaiming his affection would do so on his knee.” </p><p>A.K.A. the playwright!Olly/Duke!Neil trashfic of doom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Kingdom for Your Graces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zorana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zorana/gifts).



> Expect nothing from this trashfic of doom. It's barely a regency fic. Heck, it's barely a fic at all and written purely to punish Zee for trying to force me into this fandom against my will. I know nothing, I researched nothing, I wrote this without coffee at ridiculous o'clock in the morning. You were warned.

It’s not that Olly doesn’t actually want to write his play and stage it, ideally without dying, penniless and starving, in a ditch somewhere, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the sacrifices he’s being forced to make as a result.

“ _What_?” he hisses, scrabbling at his desk in horror and smudging the drying draft of the latest scene. “ _No_.”

Emre sighs long-sufferingly which Olly resents because this – this is uncalled for!

“We need a patron,” Emre repeats, leaning back against the doorjamb to the tiny room they share during the night and which Olly commandeers during the day to write in. “The actors will want to be paid. And, strange as it may seem, it might actually help to have some support from a noble.”

He makes no mention of their last patron, an Earl of some standing, who’d spent the last six months in Olly’s bed only to cut them loose and turn them all out naught but a week before his marriage to a lady of suitable consequence. He doesn’t have to; Olly is still burning with the humiliation of it, can feel his shoulder hunching under the weight of everything everybody is refraining from saying to him. A company is very like a family in that everybody is a nosy busybody, and this last week has been a very special hell in which none of the others will quite look him in the face but nearly everyone has found the time to pat him consolingly on the back. It’s horrible.

Emre hasn’t patted him on the back yet today, but the longer this conversation continues, the more likely it becomes that he will. Olly can feel his back hunching in pre-emptive distaste at the thought.

He can hear Emre huff. “Come now, Olly, stop. You look like Stewie when you do that.”

Stewie raises his head haughtily from where he’s grooming himself on the windowsill and watching the pigeons to glare enquiringly at Emre, losing interest a second later in favour of tracking some movement in the street.

Olly lets himself slump forward onto his desk, face pressed to the crumpled paper and ink, and have a minute to feel broken and petulant before he staggers upright and out of his chair.

“Right,” he sighs. “Who am I meeting then?”

* * *

  
It’s barely an hour later when a silent butler ushers Olly into the rooms of Neil Amin-Smith, Duke of Cambridge, leaving him there to await His Grace.

Olly appreciates the reprieve, the chance to compose himself enough to hide his bitterness when he petitions the Duke for his patronage. He’s brought the latest scenes of the play with him, fighting the instinctive nausea that comes with showing someone outside the company work before it is finished, but desperate enough to chance this. Emre had made clear in their conversation that the state of their finances was perilous in the extreme and with the Earl now having withdrawn his offer, it would only be a matter of time before their creditors came knocking demanding payment none of them had to give.

It helps that the room he’s in is quiet, a parlour of some sort located away from the main rooms of the house. He’d thought first that it might be one less used, yet the desk in the corner has papers piled upon it, letters and what look like meaningless scribbles and jumbles of alphabets on the sheets beneath them, as though the Duke has trouble spelling.

Olly purses his lips. That hardly bodes well for his endeavour.

He’s debating whether or not to simply leave silently and find some way to temporarily pacify Emre while they seek someone else when the door opens and the handsomest man he’s ever seen walks into the room.

There’s a strange ringing silence in his head as the Duke comes up to him smiling, teeth shining against the tan of his skin, dark curls falling rakishly over his brow.

“Oliver Alexander, I presume,” he says, and clasps Olly’s hand in his. He stands close enough that Olly has to tilt his head up to catch his eye, feeling small against the sheer lean height of him.

“Olly, Your Grace,” Olly responds, some part of him grateful for his mouth functioning independently of his brain.

The Duke stills suddenly, his eyes roving over Olly’s face as though recognizing something there. His grip on Olly’s hand tightens, and Olly feels his breath and heart gather speed, something in him frozen under the Duke’s careful study of him.

There’s a second where Olly imagines there’s recognition in those eyes, though that’s impossible. He would have remembered this man, he feels certain of it.

His hand flexes involuntarily in the Duke’s grasp and whatever moment held them in its grasp seems to break.

“Yes,” the Duke nods, smiling now, the intensity of a second ago vanished so abruptly that Olly wonders if he imagined it. “Go on, Olly, tell me what you wish of me.”

Olly clears his throat and gathers himself. “We’re a small theatre company in need of a patron,” he begins, voice wavering at first and then firming as he girds himself.

He continues as the Duke seats himself in one of the chairs with every indication of rapt attention, all but falling into the opposite seat the Duke waves him towards, legs trembling with nerves as he pleads his cause. “We have two other players beside myself that are part of the company, and we hire extras to play parts as needed, though we would do our best to play as many roles as we can to conserve your investment.”

He braces himself as he says, “I write our scripts,” waiting for the Duke’s response. Few patrons are willing to invest greatly in both, unknown players and unknown playwrights; they usually wish one or the other, but Olly would trust his words in the mouth of no one other than his company.

“I see,” the Duke says, eyes narrowed as he considers Olly. Olly, for his part, does his best to look respectable and meet those dark eyes, hyper aware of his own body against the cushioned surface of the chair, the indolent sprawl of the Duke’s own posture emphasizing his long muscled legs and flat stomach. The spread of the Duke’s legs holds him rapt, something in him yearning to crawl to the space there and wait to be held.

He’s dragged back to the moment by the Duke clearing his throat, guiltily raising his eyes to meet the Duke’s amused gaze, flushing with the shame of being caught.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he mutters.

The Duke waves this off. “Do you have anything with you? Perhaps something you might perform for me.” His eyes pointedly shift to the crumple of papers in Olly’s hand, half-forgotten in the midst of his confusion, and Olly startles before rising to his feet to recite the lines as best he can.

It takes him only a few lines to realize that he’s reading the scenes he wrote last night, hazed by wine and regret and a shaky horrible jealousy, the whole thing a lover’s lament wreathed in thin allusions to love-making. The verses tumble just as quickly from his lips as they came to him last night – half adoration, half anger at inevitable betrayal – the rhythm leaving him breathless and gasping at its close, stumbling over the particularly risqué last couplet.

When he dares look, the Duke is staring at him consideringly, finger pressed to his lips and revealing nothing.

“It's a love story,” Olly forces himself to explain, as if this were not already evident from the lines he just read. But he needs to be sure the Duke understands; his knees trembling as he waits for a response from that solemn face.

“I see,” the Duke says finally, meeting Olly’s eyes calmly from where Olly is standing above him, chest still heaving with emotion. “Would you perhaps accept a suggestion for your craft?”

Olly has to pause and consider this – and it is a mark in the Duke’s favour, as far as he’s concerned, that the Duke accepts the wait with no sign of impatience – before he nods, reluctant but willing to hear him out.

The Duke’s eyes seem to glitter then, and he says, bland voice belaying the smile in his eyes, “Surely a gentleman proclaiming his affection would do so on his knee.”

Olly feels himself shudder, struck with the image of it, the echo of his earlier thoughts reflected back at him. “I - Of course,” he stutters as he swallows and bends his knee, the position bringing him eye to eye with the Duke, holding that gaze over the length of the Duke’s legs between them.

Olly’s gaze is helplessly drawn to the finger the Duke is rubbing consideringly against his own lip. He repeats the lines, aware of every shift of muscle between them, the way his body is arching forward almost unwittingly, the shakiness of his breath.

It almost feels real, a confession of ardour between them. Olly finds himself repeating the words slower – less castigation, more a plea this time.

When he finishes, he’s struck by how different the scene felt. It is utterly changed, no longer the raging tirade he once imagined but a soft begging he cannot imagine showing the world.

“Does she accept him?” The Duke's voice brings him back to himself suddenly, the shock of it raising prickles along his arms and scalp.

“No,” he mutters awkwardly, feeling naked and caught out. “Not quite.”

“How unfortunate,” the Duke responds, solemn, as Olly lurches to his feet. “I can hardly imagine the person who could deny such heartfelt words.”

He sounds sincere, which is perhaps the only reason Olly does not lash out in his sudden confusion.

Instead he straightens his shoulders and stares down into the Duke’s face, stubborn and unwilling to be shamed in this. “I write what I know,” he says, holding the stare long enough that even a fool would catch his meaning, his stomach clenching but his mind resolute.

“I see,” the Duke says, non-committal. He stands as well so he can lean down, his mouth by Olly’s ear so he can whisper, “Did they not see how much you desired them?”

Pressed this close, Olly can feel the warmth of the Duke’s body near him, the two of them barely a step apart as though propriety were to have no meaning.

He's suddenly aware of the way his cock has firmed, almost inevitable from when he went to his knees, his skin sensitive as it brushes against his clothing.

“I imagine a lady, unable to speak in the face of such passion, might at least touch her lover's face,” the Duke whispers, and runs a finger down Olly’s flushed cheek. “To show her own adoration, of course.”

“Of course,” Olly croaks, his knees trembling, fists clenched against his sides to keep from grabbing onto the Duke’s shoulders, the sad crumple of the script crushed in one hand.

“Perhaps a kiss,” the Duke muses out loud, and Olly nods hastily at the pause. “After all, as you said, it _is_ a love story.”

He carefully shifts his hand to cradle Olly’s face, thumb smoothing along the curve of his lip, waiting for Olly to look at him properly before he drops his head to kiss him, quick and hard, and utterly unlike any lady of their acquaintance.

Later, when he raises his head at last, Olly pressed against him, all but on his toes to reach the Duke's mouth, the Duke whispers to him, thumb stroking his cheek tenderly, “perhaps, dear heart, we might rewrite that ending of yours.”

* * *

  
That is how it begins, and if Emre and Michael are wary of the Duke, then Olly is even more so, his own wounds still fresh, if seemingly more insignificant every day.

It helps that the Duke – Neil, Olly is to call him Neil now – is willing to understand Olly’s hesitance in this.

“I watched your last play,” he offers, and Olly has a vivid memory of laughing up into the Earl’s face in the wings, skirts a twirl as the play ended and he ran to take his bow. It must’ve been obvious to everyone what the two of them were to each other, but Olly had barely had it in him to notice that time, he’d been so filled with joy.

“So you knew,” he checks, and Neil nods, silent but watchful, seated in Olly’s chair. Something about his presence makes the room feel even smaller than usual, Stewie off napping in the eaves or catching mice or the like, and Neil’s presence feels heavy in the small space, the contrast of the clean, sharp lines of his clothing against the rough faded comfort of the room around him.

He doesn’t look away from Neil, but it’s a struggle. The memory of the Earl makes Olly feel silly and ridiculous, and foolish for putting himself in the same position now with Neil. It feels as though part of him refuses to learn, the part that goes so swiftly when Neil’s carriage comes for him, that curls itself into Neil’s body when they sleep in the same bed and remains enraptured by the curve of Neil’s lashes.

“I won’t expect anything this time,” Olly says, unsure if he’s telling Neil or insisting to himself. Perhaps both.

It takes a second but Neil’s face softens. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, sincere and careful, “we’ll come to our own arrangement, just for us. You can expect things from me. Things we both want to share.”

He holds out a gloved hand and asks, softly, “Would you like to come closer, love?”

And Olly doesn't think, just takes the two steps needed to sink to his knees beside the Duke's chair and hide his face against his thigh. He can feel that gloved hand to come rest on his head, smoothing through his hair, the texture of the leather soft against his ears, the curve of his cheek.

“Good,” Neil says, and pulls lightly on his hair until Olly tips his head back, already desperate and breathing heavily, eyes shut. “My best darling.”

Olly feels caught between the hand in his hair and the one that comes up to cradle the curve of his jaw, gentle as can be. “Give us a kiss,” he hears, and arches up on his knees, half-clumsy with want, kissing along Neil's cheek, lips sliding, desperate, until he finds Neil’s mouth waiting for him.

“Sweetheart,” Neil whispers between kisses and tightens his fist in Olly's hair so the ache bleeds through his nerves and to his cock.

Olly whimpers, one hand sliding into his clothes to hold himself, his hips aching with the urge to thrust against Neil's leg, trembling with it.

But Neil pulls away from his mouth to say, “Not yet,” firm even while the muscles of his thigh are trembling under Olly’s hands.

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he insists, the hand in Olly’s hair petting, soothing the ache from before, and Olly wants to scream but doesn't, just forces himself to ignore every instinct that’s screaming at him and pull his trembling hand away from his cock.

His hand is wet where he's leaked onto himself, and he's shaking, burning inside with shame and lust, as Neil runs his hands from his face and over his shoulders, down to his hands, the precome smearing over his gloves as well as they hold hands.

“We've only just begun,” Neil murmurs in his ear, and Olly nods jerkily and tries not to think of the way the leather pressed against his palms will taste.

* * *

  
Things seem to resolve themselves somewhat after that, or else it is simply a case of Olly being so desperately busy with the play that his first love of the stage transcends any other concern. It helps that Neil is away for much of the month, travelling in Europe and sending back beautiful letters with impeccable spelling and penmanship.

It’s baffling and yet Olly has no time to concern himself with Neil’s reasoning behind concealing his true intelligence, too busy rewriting scenes that Michael insists are vile and so disgustingly maudlin that they will be impossible to enact without the entire audience pelting them with the nearest thing to hand.

“Be less in love,” Michael grumbles good-naturedly as Olly grins, shame-faced.

“I’ll try,” Olly tells him, and promptly sits down to add yet another semi-lewd couplet to the end of Act Two.

* * *

  
Neil returns from Europe looking tired but satisfied and vanishes for a weekend to the palace, returning with a whole new series of letters that he proceeds to rewrite with terrible spelling and punctuation. It hurts something in Olly even to see them – and Neil simply chuckles as he puts them away before taking Olly back to bed – but he’s long since put together the clues.

Far be it from him to disturb an agent in service of the crown, even if he does find that the worry of it all sometimes keeps him up nights. At least it’s helping cut through the syrupy haze that he’s been writing in over the last few weeks.

And it helps that Neil is here, safe and whole where Olly can see him now. Though he’s hardly had to see him as preparation for the play proceeds apace. Their lives feel both too busy for what they have between them, and yet Olly could not imagine giving up the theatre, nor asking Neil to choose between him and country.

But then sometimes Neil surprises him, and he almost wishes…

“I've missed you,” Neil breathes into his ear, crowding him against a wall, and Olly grabs onto his shoulders, fingers digging in as if to pull Neil as close as their bodies will allow.

“The play,” he says, distracted, half-way to an excuse, when Neil kisses him.

“Neil,” he tries again, and is kissed silent that time as well. He's forgotten it all by the third kiss, hot and skilled, Neil grazing teeth along his lower lip before sucking it gently.

“You promised me a love story,” Neil whispers as he trails teasing kisses from the edge of Olly’s mouth. Olly strains to follow, to try and catch Neil’s lips again with his own, but Neil ignores his efforts to suck a mark onto the curve of his neck, the pressure of his mouth tight and bruising.

“I - I'm writing it,” Olly fumbles out, the throb of the bruise distracting him as Neil presses a light kiss to it.

He tries to turn enough to kiss the curve of Neil's mouth, his back arching and his hands trying to pull Neil's shoulders down towards him, all of him towards Olly, always. He pushes himself up on the balls of his feet so Neil can shift an arm to pull him closer, run a hand down his side to help Olly arch into him, hand shifting from cupping his buttock to cradling his raised knee, rutting against him as they kiss.

Olly shudders, gasping as Neil pulls him further in, a thigh between his own legs so he's rubbing himself against the hard muscle of it as he writhes.

“Should,” he starts, and then has to swallow and try again because this – this matters. “Should I write a happy ending?” voice wavering with desperation and nerves, everything in him feeling coiled tight and brittle, a second from breaking and release.

“Darling,” Neil says, voice shaking and soft, before he pulls Olly's hand from his shoulder to lie over Neil’s racing heart. “I'd take any ending with you,” he whispers, voice so soft Olly can barely hear him even pressed together as they are. “Just you.”

He tilts Olly's head up and kisses him slowly and carefully, his thumb pressed into the ache of the bruise as Olly shudders against him.

“I thought you knew,” Neil says, hoarse but sincere, and Olly shakes apart as he comes, fists clenched into the Duke's shirt, his eyes wet.

His knees tremble and give way when it's over, leaving Neil's arms the only things holding him up.

It takes him a second to regain their use, long enough for Neil to ease him gently against the wall, and he deliberately lets himself slide down, go to his knees and wait, hands braced on Neil's thighs, thumbs against the front of Neil’s trousers, pressed against his cock and waiting for permission.

He can hear Neil suck in a breath above him as he leans forward to press his hot cheek against the material, the line of Neil's cock warm against his own flushed face.

“So good,” he hears Neil whisper as a hand combs his hair back from his hot forehead, and Olly works Neil’s trousers open with shaking fingers and swallows him down, determined to be so good for him, good enough that he'll stay forever, keep Olly forever, pushing himself until he can swallow around Neil, hot and heavy in his throat.

He bobs and pulls back to kiss the slick head, kiss Neil’s balls before he swallows him down again, waits to feel the tremble in Neil's thighs as a warning before he finally pulls back to taste the come on his tongue, Neil’s hand cupped gently around the back of his head, holding him steady.

He swallows and Neil whispers, “Sweetheart, Olly, sweetheart” over and over like he can’t stop himself.

Olly eventually pulls off and scrambles back as Neil slowly slumps to the floor as well, the two of them collapsed into each other on the floor of the manor’s parlour, staring at each other.

Neil's smiling at him, hair rumpled and rakish, and Olly finds courage somewhere in himself to say, firm as he knows how, “I'm not a big fan of endings,” feeling cracked open but reckless with it, “but I think I’m learning how happy works.”


End file.
